


throwing down the gauntlet

by skatingsplits



Series: give me my sin again [1]
Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F, Officially, Rough Sex, two demon bitches, what are we tagging this ship, zelda has had it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-05
Updated: 2018-11-05
Packaged: 2019-08-19 09:34:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16531988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skatingsplits/pseuds/skatingsplits
Summary: Zelda just wants to get rid of that knowing gleam in the woman's eye, wants to ruin all that composure, that superiority. The witch thinks she can just leave Zelda panting on her back and go, thinks she can take charge of Zelda's body and remain in total control of her own? Not a chance.





	throwing down the gauntlet

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. This came out a little filthier than I intended, I'm sorry?  
> 2\. I am in love with this trend of Madam Spellman fic where Lilith just rocks up for no reason, makes Zelda come and fucks off again. I saw no reason to buck it.  
> 3\. Un-beta'ed and very quickly written, all mistakes are mine.

Nobody would say that Zelda Spellman wasn't an incredibly talented witch; or if they did, it wouldn't be long before they weren't ever able to say anything again. Her powers were practically unsurpassed within her coven, she could speak sixteen languages fluently and she hadn't done too shabby a job of bringing up a child either. There was, however, an area in which Zelda was not so skilled; she had absolutely no tolerance for other people. That was how her sister put it, anyway. Zelda preferred to think of herself as discerning rather than hostile but it was certainly true that the majority of living beings who found themselves in her presence would have been met with a disdainful glance and an arched eyebrow. She socialised with other witches, of course; how would the Spellmans remain a prominent witching family if they shut themselves away? But even then, Zelda couldn't claim that gossiping over wormwood tea with her compatriots in the Church of Night was the most interesting activity she'd ever participated in. That was the trouble with always being just a little quicker, a little better than everyone else; it was far too easy to get bored. So, by the time Sabrina was sixteen, Zelda had long since come to the conclusion that there was no company more stimulating than her own.

 

As a consequence, she wasn't overly thrilled with the mysterious sudden appearance of Mary Wardwell. Almost as soon as the woman had crawled out of the woodwork, she had managed to wriggle her way into being a frequent guest of the Spellman household and if she hadn't known that it would upset Sabrina, Zelda would have quite seriously contemplated finding a way to send her right after their jointly beloved Edward. Not that Zelda bought this explanation for Miss Wardwell's presence for a second. True, if anyone would have made sure Sabrina was surrounded by as much protection as possible, it was Edward. But if that was the woman's task, why had she waited a decade and a half to emerge from the shadows? Not naturally given to trusting anyone, Zelda didn't trust Mary Wardwell an ounce. And unlike her niece and her sister, she wasn't prepared to roll over and let the strange witch run riot in the Spellman household on the apparent orders of the dead brother who'd never even mentioned her.

 

It wasn't the happiest moment of Zelda's life, then, when one Wednesday evening she opened the front door to find the woman in question standing there. No, standing wasn't the right word; she was leaning, her shoulder resting against the door frame as she popped her hip out at what she obviously thought was a flattering angle. She wasn't entirely wrong, piped up a little voice in the back of Zelda's head before she quickly squashed it. The woman was utterly ridiculous.

‘You're lucky this door opens inwards’ Zelda said wryly ‘Or your face would have been flattened, and you obviously spend a great deal of time on it.’ She gave the other woman a look up and down as obviously as she could without being blatantly rude, and arranged her face into an expression that made it clear she didn't care for what she saw. Miss Wardwell’s permanent red pout and perfect coiffure were just another thing on the list of Zelda's ever-growing reasons she didn't care for the woman (Zelda's own always-lipsticked mouth and not quite natural waves notwithstanding). The other witch only smiled at the disparagement and Zelda rolled her eyes.

‘I'm here to see Sabrina' was all the woman said.

‘Well, I didn't think you were here to clean the coal scuttle' Zelda retorted, arms folded across her chest ‘Sabrina isn't here, I'd suggest you return another time.’ She made to swing the door shut without waiting for a goodbye but before she could, Mary's leather boot was blocking her way.

‘I hope you don't mind if I come in and wait' Zelda did mind, she minded very much ‘It’s quite important, you see, and I wouldn't want to have to discuss this at school, not when we have such a nice safe place to talk here’. Biting back a retort about playing fast and loose with the word ‘we’, Zelda noiselessly stepped aside and gestured for the dark haired witch to enter. The smile she received in return was large and full of more teeth than seemed strictly necessary but Zelda wasn't moved.

‘You can wait for Sabrina in the parlour, but I warn you, you'll be bored. There's nobody here to entertain you’ she said sharply as she waved her hand in the direction of the parlour door. The memory of the last time Mary Wardwell had visited was painfully fresh in her mind; Zelda had come in from a meeting at the Church to find her entire family in the kitchen clustered around the woman, showing her old photographs of Sabrina as a baby and supplying her with Hilda's apple cake. Zelda had taken one look at the nauseating tableau, poured herself a stiff drink and gone to bed without saying a word to anyone. She didn't intend to be much more verbose now, but Mary Wardwell didn't seem to mind.

‘That's terribly kind of you, I'm sure' the words were accompanied with that sickening smile again and Zelda turned on her heel without another word. Satan preserve me from nice women, Zelda thought as she mounted the stairs, rolling her eyes so extravagantly it practically counted as exercise. Not that she was completely sure that Mary Wardwell was nice. The woman's concerned manner just had to be fake, she was sure; nobody was that saccharinely sweet naturally, not even Hilda. But that left the question of who exactly the real Mary Wardwell was and, more to the point, why she seemed to be spending all her free time in Zelda's house.

Once she was inside her bedroom, Zelda breathed a sigh of relief. There was something about the presence of the witch downstairs that put her completely on edge and she really didn't care for it. A tiny mewl from the corner of the room broke her out of her moment of contemplation and she hurried over to the cradle it had come from. The frown on her brow smoothed itself into a small smile as she picked up the cradle's occupant and rocked her gently. The baby, Genevieve, had been an occupant of the Spellman household for only six weeks but the intensity of Zelda's affection for her felt rooted in something much older than that. She felt as strongly protective over her as she had done over Sabrina as a baby; more so, possibly, because where Sabrina had once known parents who loved her and had two blood aunts who cared for her fiercely, Genevieve had nobody but Zelda. Hilda had proclaimed herself completely uninvolved immediately and although she would feed or play with the baby occasionally, it was nothing like her care for Sabrina. The teenage witch herself seemed more impressed with her aunt's fit of bravery than with the actual baby, although Zelda supposed that at sixteen, one had rather more to occupy one's time than a renegade newborn. Only Ambrose seemed really interested, even fond of the child, which was lucky because as far as the outside world was concerned, Genevieve was the fruit of his loins. An easy explanation, and with the little bits of magic Zelda had done to slightly alter the baby's appearance so it didn't resemble either parent too closely, she felt quite secure in Genevieve’s safety for the time being.

Since Hilda had moved her things to the big green bedroom on the next floor, Zelda had decided to at least appear as though she was taking it in her stride and found herself a gorgeously luxurious double bed to fill the empty space. She would have been lying if she said that lounging on this bed with Genevieve in one arm and a good book in the other hadn't rapidly become one of her favourite ways of spending her time, however much she usually loathed domesticity. Absorbed in rereading Gigi, Zelda was able to forget for a while about the interloper downstairs. After an hour or two, however, Sabrina still hadn't returned and she was feeling increasingly uncomfortable about leaving this woman alone to prowl around the ground floor at her leisure.

Slipping the baby back into her cradle with a sigh, Zelda descended the stairs again. Steeling herself to be at least vaguely polite to the strange witch, Zelda straightened her already iron-rod back and entered the parlour. It was empty. It took digging her nails into her palms for her to not scream in frustration. If it wasn't bad enough that this strange witch was in her house at all, she now seemed to feel entitled to roam around as she pleased? Rage was radiating from her pores as she swept through to the kitchen, the drawing room, even the embalming room but there was no sign of her unwelcome guest anywhere. Hoping against hope that she'd just gotten bored and gone away, Zelda returned upstairs. From the corridor she heard Genevieve's faint cry and although she opened the door ready to soothe the dusting child back to sleep, she stopped dead in her tracks instead.

‘What in Satan's name do you think you're doing?’ The words were out of Zelda's mouth before she could stop them, before she had time to mask the panic in her voice. Mary Wardwell was standing over Genevieve's cradle, one hand reaching out to the baby in a gesture that would have been endearing if it hadn't stricken cold fear directly into Zelda's heart.

‘Why, I was just-' the other woman began in that incredibly irritating, butter-wouldn't-melt voice of hers but Zelda cut her off almost immediately.

‘Out. Now.’ She curtly beckoned Miss Wardwell to come after her and turned on her heel, not willing to appear weak by turning back to check if the witch was following. Luckily, once Zelda got into the kitchen it transpired that she had, and was standing there with an innocent expression on her face that made Zelda's palms itch with the urge to slap her like a mortal.

‘I do hope I haven't upset you' there was that voice again.

‘Stop talking. I will tolerate your presence in this house because it makes Sabrina happy but I hope you know you're skating on perilously thin ice' Wardwell's face was a complete blank and that irritated Zelda even more. She took a few steps towards the other woman and pointed one painted fingernail into her chest.

‘Let me make something very clear' this time, Zelda made sure there wasn't an ounce of panic in her voice. A sharpened sword being drawn from its scabbard was a less dangerous sound. ‘If you ever touch that baby again, no amount of dark magic in the world will be able to protect you from me. That's a promise.’

‘Oh dear, Zelda. Why on earth would you think I would want to do that?’

‘I don't know! I don't know why you spend your time haunting my house like a malevolent spirit, but you do. I don't know why you're fixated on my niece like a bloodhound, but you are. So, I don't know why you would want to harm my baby but it doesn't seem like a great leap to assume that you do!’ One of Zelda's greatest skills has always been her ability to repress. She shoves things down below the surface, always forgetting that those things inevitably come bubbling up again more violently and intrusively than before at the least opportune moments. Such as this particular moment, when she most needed to seem in control but was flushed with rage, chest heaving as she stared down her opponent.

‘Now, I'm sure you didn't mean that’ an opponent who refuses to admit that she's an opponent, worst of all. ‘You must be terribly stressed, what with Sabrina's whole new life and a new baby in the house must just be the cherry on top of the cake. Why don't you sit down and I'll get you a glass of water?’

Before she knew it, Zelda was sitting in her chair at the breakfast table. She blinked. The anger in her chest is still bubbling away there but she's sat on Mary Wardwell's command without a thought.

‘Did you just use magic on me?’ 

‘Just a little soothing spell’ the woman says brightly, as though she's feeding the birds in one of those awful animated films Sabrina used to adore. Zelda opens her mouth to angrily protest but before she can, Mary has pressed a cold glass of clear liquid into her hand.

‘You must be out of your mind if you think I'm going to drink that' frosty politeness has apparently flown out of the window.

‘Dear me, Zelda; we're really not happy, are we?’ Wardwell's voice was a sing-song clucking of concern and Zelda wondered how upset Sabrina would really be if her favourite teacher's skull found its way to being used as a nice little jar for Zelda's makeup brushes. ‘You're wound up tighter than a clockwork broomstick. I wonder, would you allow me to assist you?’

‘Try using another spell on me and see what happens' Zelda grinds out darkly, slamming the glass back down on the table.

‘Oh, I didn't mean a spell, silly girl' Mary Wardwell murmurs and before Zelda can bristle at her patronising tone, the other woman's painted mouth has descended over hers and does a very good job of keeping her quiet.

 

Approximately four minutes later, Zelda is no longer being quiet. Her head is tipped back and her legs are spread wide for Mary Wardwell to bury her face between Zelda's thighs. Normally when Zelda fucks someone, particularly when someone does this, she regulates the noise she makes; she's never enjoyed giving praise and she relishes the frustration she incites when she doesn't validate a partner's efforts, makes them work just that bit harder. At the present moment, however, her brain isn't quite operating on a level that allows her to concentrate enough to restrain herself so she's moaning like the finest Parisian courtesan as this woman she can't stand eats her to orgasm. Her hand is clenched tightly in Mary's hair (the way the other woman grunts when Zelda pulls is delicious; she can't tell if it's pain or pleasure and she really doesn't care) and her hips keep bucking up without her consent.

Almost alarmingly quickly, her stomach is tightening with a deliciously familiar ache and her thighs are squeezing together around Mary's face to such an extent that she's surprised the other woman isn't suffocating. When Zelda’s breathing finally comes back to something resembling normal, she sits up in her chair and brushes her hair back from her eyes to appraise the witch at her feet. She's not entirely pleased to see Mary rising to her feet and picking up her handbag.

‘What do you think you're doing?’ Zelda snaps.

‘What, don't you feel better? I was sure that would work' Zelda just wants to get rid of that knowing gleam in the woman's eye, wants to ruin all that composure, that superiority. The witch thinks she can just leave Zelda panting on her back and go, thinks she can take charge of Zelda's body and remain in total control of her own? Not a chance.

In a flash, she's on her feet and has Mary Wardwell pressed hard against the kitchen counter, a hand tangled hard in her hair as she yanks the brunette's head in for a bruising, bitter kiss. The woman has too much fucking hair, and the sensation of it tickling Zelda's cheek is too intimate, too sensual, and it makes Zelda growl. She pulls back, checking Mary's face for any sign of discomposure and isn't displeased with what she finds. There's a sheen of sweat on her brow and her lipstick is smeared around her mouth in a mess that goes straight to Zelda's core. Mary starts to say something but Zelda nips hard at her bottom lip before she can.

 

‘Shut. Up.’ If Zelda has to listen to another smart remark from those bruised lips, she'll scream. Sinking her teeth into the soft flesh of Mary Wardwell's collarbone, her hands make quick and rough work of the pencil skirt surrounding the smooth skin of the brunette's bare thighs, bare buttocks and bare cunt. Zelda raises an eyebrow, two fingers plunging without warning into Mary's wet heat.

‘How very vulgar' she murmurs, pulling her head up again to look the other woman in the eye. ‘Do you always walk around like this, are you always so ready to be fucked by women you hardly know? No need to respond, I think I know the answer’.

To her consternation, Mary Wardwell smiles like it's the first day of the summer solstice and parts her legs willingly for Zelda to touch her. Naturally, this makes Zelda immediately cease the movement of her fingers.

‘Say please' Zelda spits out. Not only is she going to destroy Mary's supercilious composure beneath her fingers, she's going to make her beg for it first, beg Zelda to reduce her to a crumbling, quivering wreck. No such begging is forthcoming, however, so Zelda removes her hand completely and replaces it with her thigh, grabbing both of Mary's wrists as the other woman grinds down on the flesh of Zelda's leg, still clad in her own skirt. This elicits a pleasing whine from those red lips so Zelda lets her skirt drop to the ground and rocks her leg even harder against Mary's dripping centre. One of her hands let go so her fingertips ghost lightly over the witch's clitoris, just enough to make Mary curse, before she quickly pulls them away again. Really, she's enjoying this far too much. Usually when Zelda's rough, it's in the throes of mutual passion; two people (or however many people happen to be in the room at the time) too overcome with desire to be gentle, biting and bruising each other until they're spent. This is different.

 

‘If you don't ask me nicely, Miss Wardwell, you're going to be writhing up there for a long time, I assure you’ she drawls. Suddenly savage, she pinches hard at the bundle of nerves between Mary's legs and smiles when the other witch hisses.

‘Please, Sister Spellman, use those lovely fingers and make me come' it's far too smug, too complacent for what Zelda wants. She tuts, rolling her eyes dramatically.

‘I'm afraid you're going to need to try a little harder' her nails are short but they still leave a trail of delicious red marks as she drags them across Mary's thigh. As quick as a flash, she brings her leg down from between Mary's leg and enters the other woman with two fingers, plunging in and out just once before removing them again and placing them into her mouth slowly and deliberately. Mary Wardwell's lips curl in a snarl and she tugs at a lock of Zelda's hair, hard.

‘Please, you twisted little bitch' now, that will do quite nicely. Unable to help herself from smirking like a cat who got the cream, Zelda brings her mouth to Mary's in a vicious kiss as her second hand moves down to work Mary's clit in sloppy, hard circles, the other hand returning to its place inside the other woman. Both her hands are working hard and Mary is gasping as her hands cling onto Zelda's shoulders, scratching carelessly at the skin there. Through a sheen of lust, Zelda is still irritated by how much her foe is enjoying herself but then Mary is clenching around her and howling wordlessly like a banshee, eyes glassy, hair messy and mouth wide open, completely wrecked and yes, this is exactly _exactly_ what Zelda wanted. Her own cunt is pulsing and she grabs Mary's hand and shoves it between her legs until the brunette is rubbing her into agonising bliss.

She forces herself not to moan, not even to whimper, and she only lets herself stand panting for a second before she completely withdraws from Mary Wardwell's body. Zelda stalks over to the sink, as haughty as she can muster with soaked underwear, no skirt and lipstick all over her face, and runs her hands under the hot water. It's not easier to clean up the mess on her face without a mirror but she does her best, prolonging the time before she has to turn back around to look at the figure still languishing by the counter.

 

‘Feel better now?’ Mary Wardwell's hair and face are as rumpled as Zelda's but she still manages to exude a certain irritating dignity and Zelda scowls.

‘I felt fine, I haven’t the slightest idea of what you mean' the witch just smiles and shimmies her skirt up until she almost looks as though she hasn't been fucked hard by the sister of the dead man she was in love with in the middle of her protégé's kitchen. She wipes her mouth ineffectually and moves towards the front door while combing a hand through that bird's nest she calls hair.

‘I thought you needed to speak to Sabrina oh-so-urgently’ Zelda comments dryly, opening the door for the interloper.

‘Whatever gave you that idea?’ Mary Wardwell says sweetly as she crosses the threshold and turns her head to look into Zelda's eyes. Mind ticking away superhumanly fast below a blank expression, Zelda stares back for a moment before she shuts the door with a force that could have made the house crumble. Her pulse hasn’t quite returned to normal as she comes back into the kitchen, muttering a simple spell to remove all traces of the evening's activities.

 

It's about an hour later when Sabrina finally arrives home and Zelda is sitting in the parlour with Genevieve in her arms, not a single thing about the domestic tableau suggests that Zelda's been doing anything other than mothering all evening. Sabrina makes inane conversation, going on and on about her success in conjuring class while Zelda doesn't even pretend to listen after a minute or two. The rest of the evening passes without incident until Sabrina pads into the kitchen to make herself some jasmine tea and returns only thirty seconds later.

‘Uh, Aunt Z?’ Zelda doesn't look up from her book but makes a small noise of affirmation that she's listening. ‘I uh... these were in the kitchen and I know they're not mine...’

This time Zelda's head snaps up and she's met with the sight of her scarlet-faced niece holding out a black, lacy pair of knickers as tentatively as though they were a set of highly sensitive explosives. If it weren't for the weight of Genevieve in her arms, Zelda would have jumped to her feet and snatched them; as it is, she feels all the colour drain from her face and opens her mouth to find no sound coming out of it.

‘You know, I would really really love it if you didn't tell me' her niece says quickly and drops the offending article on the wooden table at Zelda's right hand, giving her aunt an awkward wave before leaving the room again. Zelda feels the rage that two orgasms had quelled slightly ignite again and digs her nails deep into the palm of her unoccupied hand. That hellcat of a woman hadn't even been _wearing_... ah. Zelda might not like to admit how many but she's been around a lot of years and she recognises a gauntlet being thrown down when she sees it. And if there's one thing she relishes, it's a challenge.


End file.
